NICHOLAS' POV
The moment Miranda stirred in my bed, I knew she was awake.
I let the shower run just long enough to give her the illusion of privacy enough time for her to panic, to scramble for an escape that didn't exist. When I stepped out, towel slung low, her gaze raked over me with the same hunger she'd shown last night before she'd whispered Sylvia Plath into my mouth like a confession.
"This is how Gatsby must have looked."
I heard the thought as clearly as if she'd spoken it.
"Enjoying the view?" I asked, watching her throat work as she swallowed.
She lifted her chin, that defiant little tilt I'd come to adore. "My parents' trust fund paid for four years of private education. I know quality when I see it."
Amusing. As if her parents' money had anything to do with why she was here.
I laughed, sharp and unkind. "Yet you work at that café."
A flicker of irritation crossed her face. Good. I wanted her angry. Wanted her feeling.
She reached for her dress black, expensive, bought with her own money. A small rebellion against the trust fund she refused to rely on.
"I have a tutorial at ten," she said, already calculating her exit.
I caught her wrist before she could stand. Her pulse jumped under my thumb, a rapid staccato of fear and something far more interesting.
"Tell me, Miranda," I murmured, dragging my touch along the delicate bones. "Does Professor Langley know you're using his class to avoid your thesis?"
Her breath hitched.
Yes. There it was. The moment she realized I knew more than I should. That I'd researched her.
I checked my watch, letting the Rolex glint under the light. "You've got eighteen minutes to make it to Bobst Library."
Then I smiled.
"Run."